


That's The Thing About Trust

by afterlights



Category: Brave Police J-Decker
Genre: Deckerd is a teenage boy tbh, M/M, McCrane is here briefly and he regrets every moment of it, Pre-Relationship, Smut, Tactile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterlights/pseuds/afterlights
Summary: To call Gunmax cagey is an understatement, but these things take time, and Deckerd wants him to open up at his own pace. Still, it isn't often he's granted the opportunity to touch, so when he finally gets that chance, he can't quite stop himself.In short: Deckerd finds Gunmax's antenna very, very distracting.
Relationships: Deckerd/Gunmax (Brave Police J-Decker)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	That's The Thing About Trust

**Author's Note:**

> wow it sure has been a while since i wrote or posted anything and it's for a 25 year old show :') hope this is a nice surprise for anyone still around
> 
> set at some indeterminate point after episode 21 but before episode 25. let me tackle that whole mess some other time, maybe!  
bold indicates Gunmax's incredible English.

Not for the first time this week, Deckerd finds himself being drawn out of his paperwork by Gunmax. The fact that his partner isn't doing anything particularly disruptive is what makes it so embarrassing to admit to - there's just something about the way he moves that seems impossible to ignore, like every animated gesture or provocative cant of his hips is made to pull Deckerd's gaze in and for no other reason.

If his own duties aren't keeping him busy, going out for a drive isn't on the books, and Toudou has already shooed him out of maintenance three times for being a nuisance, Gunmax likes to lounge around in the Decker Room with his chair tipped at a precarious angle and his long legs propped up on the desk. He bounces his foot in time to whatever is currently playing on the radio, hums to himself when a song he knows comes on, a lazy smile curving his lips. Perhaps most egregiously, he's taken to bending over the others' desks whenever he's talking to them, which tends to put his rear almost directly in Deckerd's view.

But somehow, _somehow_, the worst part is how Gunmax's antenna twitches, flicking up needle-straight in a subtle sign of alertness or interest, snapping back low when he feels cornered, annoyed, or simply unhappy. The constant movement of it throughout the day is information Deckerd's processor has apparently decided is important to keep track of.

In other words, it's distracting. Deckerd can't explain his own reasoning behind the urge, but he _really_ wants to touch it.

Gunmax remains a bit of a wary thing, however, still not quite certain of his place within the Brave Police or how much he wants to display his trust in any of them. He always has an excuse for ducking out of Power Joe's friendly arm across his shoulders; he's promised to play soccer with Drill Boy at least three times and has yet to follow up on it; his exchanges with Shadowmaru seem to be equally filled with teasing and argumentative remarks that the more level-headed ninja won't stoop to acknowledge; and he outright refused McCrane's helping hand the other day after a fall during tactical training. Deckerd is arguably the one who's gotten closest to him, though it hasn't escaped his notice that Gunmax has yet to sit _too_ near him again since the whole handcuffing experience. Maybe he's concerned that Deckerd will chain them together for another impromptu trust exercise.

To call the green Brave cagey is an understatement, but these things take time, and Deckerd wants him to open up at his own pace. Still, it isn't often he's granted the opportunity to touch, so when he finally gets that chance, he can't quite stop himself.

This afternoon, an unusual quiet has descended upon the Decker Room. Yuuta is off on a downtown patrol-slash-outing with Power Joe and Drill Boy, Dumpson had muttered something about Ayako having a day off before he left, and Shadowmaru's location is, as it often is, a mystery. McCrane is handling the remainder of the Build Team's workload, finishing up and correcting some of their documents, while Deckerd focuses on a different case.

A series of recent incidents have made travel through the city increasingly dangerous after dark - numerous reports have come in of biker gangs being at the source of the trouble. They've been running citizens off the road, hijacking electronic goods vehicles and making off with thousands in technological product, holding up bystanders and demanding they turn over their valuables, among other crimes. The attacks _almost_ look random, but there's a sense of purpose linking them all together that is, frankly, too suspicious to ignore. Deckerd had invited Gunmax over to take a look - if anyone is going to recognise a possible person of interest in these blurry photos, it'd be the former highway patrolman.

Gunmax is leaning over his shoulder, choosing to brace himself with one hand on the edge of the desk rather than initiate any proper contact. It's still the closest he's been in a while. Deckerd can feel every gust of air escaping Gunmax's vents, and the sensation coupled with the nearby thrum of another mech's systems leaves an oddly pleasant tingle in his metal. His partner appears completely focused on his work, peering at the documents Deckerd has been poring over for the better part of an hour. To Deckerd's regret, he can't say the same for himself. He's been catching glimpses of that antenna moving in the corner of his vision and it's _right there_, he could reach out and touch it so easily—

Before the thought is even fully formed, his arm is moving of its own accord and a finger ghosts along the delicate silver metal, tracing a slow path from root to tip. The reaction is immediate, though perhaps not quite as explosive as he'd expected it to be. Gunmax visibly tenses; his engine spits out a stuttering growl and his free hand catches Deckerd's wrist in a crushing grip. It doesn't seem as if he truly intends to shove him off, more seeking a way to stabilise himself as a faint tremor runs the length of his body. Then, just as suddenly, he releases him and steps away, putting the desk between them. The comfortable warmth of his frame is something Deckerd finds himself missing.

"**Watch it**, boy scout, before you get yourself in trouble," Gunmax snorts at him, sounding irritated, but his antenna is completely vertical when he meets Deckerd's optics with a strange sort of intensity. He's doing everything he can to hide it, but the brief touch definitely caught him off-guard.

After an extended silence in which the blue Brave finds himself lost, unable to settle on what the correct response here should be, Gunmax drops his focus to the photos spread across the desk. If he wanted a reply other than Deckerd's open-mouthed silence, he mentions nothing of it. He taps one of the pictures, straight back to business. "I recognise that guy. Probably not our man but he's always got a finger in every pie, so to speak— I can guarantee he'll know _something_. Shouldn't take long to track him down. I'll let you know."

Flashing a casual salute, he heads out, fast enough that Deckerd has no time to ask any questions or even call him back. Only once he's gone does Deckerd notice the shallow grooves in the edge of his desk, a series of telltale indents left where the biker had gripped the metal hard enough to leave an impression. Doubt gnaws at him; perhaps he should have practiced better restraint. Did he upset Gunmax?

When he lifts his gaze, he finds McCrane studying him curiously.

"What was that about?"

Deckerd blinks, scrambles for an excuse, and ultimately can't come up with anything suitable. "I don't know," he answers honestly.

  


* * *

  


By the time Gunmax returns an hour or so later, Deckerd is the only one left in the office - McCrane has gone for an evening drive to wind down after a long workday and the others are still out or, in Shadowmaru's case, unaccounted for. Despite having no distractions whatsoever to drag his attention away from the reports, Deckerd hasn't made a whole lot of progress on the case, his mind wandering, the words and pictures smudging into nonsensical visual noise.

"**Yo**, Deckerd. Still at it?" There's a slight spring in Gunmax's step, a sharpness in his tone that, given it isn't directed anywhere in particular, might indicate amusement. He's always in a better mood after he's been out for a ride, but there is something slightly off from the norm, something that feels forced. Deckerd's optics are drawn almost automatically to his antenna, which is twitching up and down in a manner that could convey either excitement or restlessness.

His observations have paid off, he supposes. It's clear Gunmax doesn't know what he's feeling right now— but unfortunately, neither does Deckerd.

"Yeah… guess I'm just a bit out of it today," he admits with a shake of the head. "Any luck on your end?"

Gunmax clicks his tongue and scowls, antenna pinning back as he abruptly loses an internal battle with composure. "That can wait," he snaps. A graceful sweep of his hand sends documents and photos flying everywhere, scattering papers all across the office - Deckerd's mouth drops open in shock, but before he can even attempt to issue a reprimand, Gunmax has taken up residence on the hastily cleared desk. He lifts a leg and slams it against the side of Deckerd's chair, effectively trapping him in his seat. "First things first, I'm asking the questions: what the _hell_ are you thinking?"

"Uh…" Deckerd starts, not sure where to look when faced with a large expanse of polished silver, shapely thigh right by his head, and quickly decides the safest course of action is to just try and meet Gunmax's gaze. "I'm sorry? I didn't mean anything by it." That earns him a shove at the chair. "Really! If I made you uncomfortable then I genuinely apologise, Gunmax. I wasn't thinking."

The scowl deepens briefly, but then the biker snorts and breaks eye contact, sitting back enough to give Deckerd a few precious inches of personal space. "Figures," he mutters, his anger deflating somewhat. "You really are just a boy scout, huh."

Confusion crosses Deckerd's features, his lips pressing together in thought. He can't make any sense of Gunmax's mood; he certainly seems frustrated, but lingering beneath that is an emotion that's proving more difficult to grasp. Deckerd feels the same about this situation as he does about his current case, like he's missing something important, a vital clue in the investigation. "Mind filling me in? I don't really understand."

Gunmax responds with a long-suffering noise, the kind he makes when he desperately wants to avoid a topic he finds at all awkward. "I said _I'm_ asking the questions, Deckerd. What's with you and my antenna?" He barks out a coarse laugh. "I'd almost find it funny if I thought you were actually trying to be subtle about it."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Deckerd splutters.

"Right, and McCrane _isn't_ full of repressed rage." Though Gunmax relents in his attempt to pin him to his chair through sheer sexual power and intimidation, Deckerd discovers the alternative isn't much better when the green and gold mech crosses one leg over the other instead, nudging a thigh against Deckerd's knee. The smooth glide of metal against metal is incredibly distracting. "You think I haven't noticed? You can't stop staring at it." As if to make a point, his antenna perks up and Deckerd, to his shame, follows its movement without thinking.

Seeing the triumphant grin spreading across the other's face, Deckerd knows there's no point in denying it now. "Okay… so I find it interesting. Is there something wrong with that?"

"I guess not. Problem arises when you start fuckin' touching it out of the blue." Tapping his fingers agitatedly on his knee, Gunmax struggles with the words for a couple of moments before he manages to grind out, "It's… sensitive, y'know."

"Oh," Deckerd says dumbly. He gets another agitated sigh and follows up hesitantly with, "…In a bad way?"

"**No**."

"_Oh_."

A long, uncertain silence stretches between them. Gunmax fidgets, focusing anywhere but on Deckerd, while Deckerd himself watches his partner with intrigue and attempts to decipher what the mech is trying to get at, what he _wants_, because there's definitely a lot that isn't being said here. He takes stock of their closeness, the relative rarity of it, and the fact Gunmax hasn't pulled away or smacked him for his earlier impulsiveness. If anything, it's drawn him in like a moth to flame. He might be coming off as his usual caustic and unapproachable self in his speech, but his body language reads the exact opposite. When he shifts, restless, there's nothing accidental about the way his leg rubs against Deckerd's.

Eventually Deckerd tries, speaking softly, "Can I…?"

"Tch." Gunmax sounds like he want to refuse on instinct, but instead reaches out and takes hold of his wrist. Leaning in a fraction, he lightly presses Deckerd's hand against the side of his audial, just below his antenna. His systems thrum as his optics shutter and dim behind his visor; an oddly intimate sight that Deckerd only witnesses due to their proximity. Gunmax hums and tilts his head further into his touch, almost butting against his hand, which prompts Deckerd to run tentative fingers up across that eye-catching antenna.

"Gunmax…"

"Shut it." Golden optics flash online - even through his visor's tinted glass, the biker's glare is razor-sharp, brimming with unspoken challenge and a wariness that speaks volumes. He expects Deckerd to make _fun_ of him. The realisation is a bit startling, and he might have been hurt by such a callous assumption if he didn't already know of the mech's past. Context is key, Deckerd has found, so it doesn't come as a surprise that Gunmax is hesitant to show a more vulnerable side of himself. Understanding just how much trust Gunmax is putting in him to even allow this, Deckerd offers a comforting smile and gives the base of his antenna a gentle rub that appears to help him relax. A low purr escapes his engine when Deckerd slides his fingers along the underside of the metal, antenna shivering against his hand. "Didn't expect it to feel… y'know, **nice**. Thought you'd laugh," he admits with a little sigh.

Deckerd can't help but frown. "I would never. We're partners, Gunmax— you can trust me."

Something about that causes a reaction, a breathy gasp escaping Gunmax's mouth before he bites his own lip to stifle it, face heating visibly - he tilts his helm and rubs his cheek into Deckerd's palm as if trying to hide. Deckerd is fixated, optics practically glued to the sight of Gunmax licking his lips contemplatively, wrestling with pride over pleasure, before he demands, "Say it again."

"Trust me?"

Gunmax is shaking his head, though his engine _does_ respond with an excited rev. "The other thing."

Catching his face in a gentle, bracing hold, Deckerd strokes his cheek while the other hand shifts up to give his antenna some more attention. "You're my partner, Gunmax," he tells him, rising far enough out of his chair that he can brush his lips across the biker's audial when he speaks; a full-frame tremble grips Gunmax from helm to heel strut as his fans roar embarrassingly loud, but Deckerd doesn't fault him for it. The sound spurs him on, if anything, making him want to be bolder than he has any right to be. "It's all right. We're partners," he assures and Gunmax can't hold back a faint whimper this time, hands coming up to steady himself on Deckerd's shoulders.

A feeling coiling in his circuits gives Deckerd cause to halt for a second - there's no other way to describe it than _hunger_. He feels like he wants something but it's hard to put a name on it, not when he doesn't have the words or experience to do so. He leans his head against the mech's until his stalling gets Gunmax's attention.

Gunmax begins, impatient, "Hey—"

In the most simplistic terms, Deckerd wants Gunmax. How exactly, he can't be completely sure, but he knows he's too far away; they're closer than ever but it's still not enough. Asking again, millimetres apart, his voice is barely a whisper, "Can I?"

Gunmax murmurs a 'yeah' that Deckerd swallows up with a kiss, the sound dissolving into a low moan. This being his first time kissing anyone _ever_, Deckerd has exactly half a clue as to what he's doing and hopes it'll be enough - he's running on instinct and what little information he's gleaned from TV shows he pretended not to watch. He strokes and pets the sides of his partner's helm, feeling him shiver at his touch, antenna giving tiny, cute twitches of pleasure. Though he's been gradually leaning forward, arching up to reach Gunmax, chasing his mouth, Deckerd suddenly finds himself being pushed back down into his seat. His automatic reaction is to protest, then fear for an instant that he's gone too far and done something he shouldn't, but those concerns are quickly pushed aside by the solid weight settling in his lap. Gunmax straddles him, pressing somehow even closer than before.

The manner in which their plating scrapes together is both slightly uncomfortable and rather enjoyable - it's easy for Deckerd to forget his concerns over telltale paint transfers when Gunmax crashes his lips into the blue Brave's again. Deckerd returns the kiss with enthusiasm, hearing his cooling fans hitch up a gear as Gunmax opens his mouth and lets him in. He's hot, wetter than expected, and Deckerd was not aware they could even produce this much lubricant. It's hardly the focus right now, however; he's too busy indulging in the feeling of Gunmax's tongue sliding against his own, sharp with the tang of fuel, just right.

It's a decidedly messy experience. Neither of them is completely confident in what they're doing and it shows, but they're intuitive enough that it doesn't feel at all bad, even when Deckerd accidentally bumps his nose against Gunmax's (they both snort) or the biker pushes so close that his visor gets knocked askew (which prompts more laughter). Shaking hands reach up to rip it off, tossing the curved glass casually onto the desk. When Deckerd meets his golden optics clearly, it's like seeing him for the first time. His A.I. chip sparks with an emotion he can't begin to describe; it's heady and intoxicating, a volatile mix of awe and want and affection, and he feels like he's going to supernova.

"We're partners." The words slip out between kisses, repeating like a mantra, a promise that Gunmax clings to. He gives as much as he takes, finds the most sensitive spots on Deckerd's frame and follows transformation seams like road lines on a map, destination: ecstasy. Gusts of hot air wash across him as the mech in his lap digs his fingers into exposed wiring, making Deckerd whine and buck beneath his weight. It's easy to return the favour when Gunmax is so responsive - stroking his antenna earns Deckerd a series of unrefined gasps and groans that are devoured as though they're the finest gasoline.

Engine growling, Gunmax trades softer kisses for something deeper, more aggressive, biting at Deckerd's lower lip while he pulls at the blue Brave's helm lights. His hips grind down against Deckerd's, seeking a kind of release his body likely can't achieve, but the tingle of charge building between them is an acceptable alternative. It's going to be interesting trying to explain these scratches and scuffs of green paint to the mechanics.

Deckerd traces a hand down Gunmax's back, following the crackling electricity along his spinal strut to that svelte waist, dragging what feels like lightning under his fingertips. That seems to do the trick. The biker's head snaps back as he arches in Deckerd's lap, displaying a surprising amount of flexibility. "D-Deckerd—" A final tug at his antenna while he's kissing along his jaw and Gunmax's legs lock tight around him, voice dissolving into binary static and his optics blazing over-bright. Sparks skitter across his plating in uncoordinated waves - the runaway charge rushes into Deckerd's body and he can't help but groan as several internal systems go down, knocked offline by the force of the surge. His frame is built to recover from such things, of course, but it still leaves him reeling and unsteady for a couple of seconds, slumped strutless in his chair.

With a ragged ex-vent, Gunmax flops back to lean his upper body on the desk, propped up precariously between the furniture and Deckerd's lap and looking thoroughly wrung out. An expression of mixed confusion and utter satisfaction finds its way onto his face while he looks blearily at Deckerd.

"Well," he manages through scorching, laboured breaths, "that was _something_."

"D-Didn't know you had it in you?" Deckerd asks, the words half-drowned out by a giddy laugh. His circuits feel like they've all melted together. Several error messages are flashing on his HUD, demanding his attention, but he brushes them aside in favour of taking in all he can of Gunmax lying loose and unguarded atop him. _That's_ an image he wants seared permanently into his memory. The sight even drowns out any jealousy he might have mustered up otherwise - whatever Gunmax has installed, the overload was evidently much more intense for him than it was for Deckerd. Right now, he feels a little bit… unfulfilled.

Gunmax huffs a jet of steam, something Deckerd has personally only witnessed once before when McCrane first saw Colonel Seia with her hair down. "No idea. What kind of software even…" His vocalizer fails him and he simply gives Deckerd a helpless shrug. With a deep sigh, Gunmax tilts his head back and dims his optics until they're almost completely offline.

Deckerd opens his mouth to check the biker is actually all right when they both freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. In a panic, he automatically scoots his chair back and leaps to his feet, which leads to Gunmax losing his balance, crashing to the floor with a muffled curse - the door opens moments later, giving them no time to salvage the situation. Deckerd's optics shoot down to meet Gunmax's briefly as he stills in his futile attempt to regain his footing, apparently figuring it's better to hide behind the desk and pretend he isn't here. His gaze quickly flicks back up when McCrane walks into the office. The mech pauses just inside the doorway and sniffs, then frowns.

"Deckerd," he greets when he spots him. "Smells like something blew a fuse in here."

Deckerd blinks, feigning innocence. "Really? I can't smell anything."

He'd be more convincing if his fans weren't running so loud, he thinks, but McCrane seems to take pity on him and doesn't push the topic any further. Hoping the way his legs tremble slightly isn't as noticeable as it feels, he rounds the desk and kneels to hurriedly retrieve all the documents Gunmax tossed aside. "Must have dozed off and knocked these over, how unsightly," he laughs to himself, knowing the excuse is paper-thin and that McCrane is too smart and reasonable of a mech to fall for it. Luckily, he's also in possession of a good amount of tact.

"Better get those cleaned up before the commissioner sees," the big mech says, then adds, "The others let me know they're on their way back— they'll be ten minutes or so. Oh, and Toudou mentioned wanting to check on Gunmax's 'experimental systems,' whatever those are. Let him know when you see him, won't you?"

He follows this up with a pointed look that makes Deckerd want to squirm - it isn't exactly judgemental, but he still isn't comfortable being pinned under that piercing stare. If he didn't know any better, he might have believed McCrane could literally see right through him.

"Y-Yeah, I'll bring it up when he gets back. Thanks, McCrane."

"Great. I need to visit maintenance myself, so. I'll… go do that." Bidding him goodbye with a _very_ strained nod, McCrane swiftly turns and leaves. As soon as the door has shut behind him, Deckerd slumps over in full-bodied relief.

"Do you think that was more embarrassing for him or for me?" he mutters to Gunmax, turning to help the biker up off the floor after depositing the papers in a haphazard pile on his desk. Antenna bouncing happily, Gunmax gives him an amused snicker as he dusts himself off - he pauses when Deckerd takes a step closer and offers his visor to him. The green Brave slides it back on before reaching to rub the side of Deckerd's helm affectionately.

"So? Did that satisfy your curiosity at all, **baby**?" he ventures, failing to hide a grin when Deckerd leans lightly into his palm.

Deckerd struggles to find his words. "For now." He's incredibly thankful for the way Gunmax's face heats up at his answer; it makes him feel considerably less awkward knowing he isn't the only one who's a little bashful in the aftermath of… this.

Gunmax rests his hands on his hips and laughs openly, the sound like music to Deckerd's audial sensors. "You're impossible." He's still chuckling as Deckerd touches his cheek, finding himself unable to resist, then slides his fingers up to stroke his antenna absently - Gunmax shudders when residual static prickles between them. "I wouldn't do that unless you want us to be stuck here for another twenty minutes," he says warningly, though his voice lacks any true bite. After a second he steps between Deckerd's legs to press a brief kiss to his lips. "Thanks… **partner**."

It feels almost like a farewell and Deckerd doesn't want to let him leave; he knows he has to, that they can't stay here in this moment forever because the day is coming to an end and they won't be alone for much longer. But will he ever have this chance again? When will the next time be that Gunmax decides to drift close like this? Fearing it might be far too long is what prompts him to catch Gunmax and pull him back for something more drawn out. The mech's mouth is warm and inviting, nothing less than addicting, and the little nips he gives Deckerd are equal parts tender and arousing.

Nuzzling his helm against the biker's, he starts, "Gunmax, I—"

"Geez, you're so needy," teases Gunmax, patting his shoulders until he gets the hint and, with much reluctance, loosens his grip around his waist. "Actin' like this was a once in a lifetime thing. **Listen**— you wanna do this again soon? I'm down. Want to talk about feelings and shit?" Deckerd feels something in his chest begin to crush itself into a tiny ball of useless parts until Gunmax, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck, continues, "Also down. If— if that's something you're looking for, obviously. Augh, not to drown you in sappy stuff or whatever, but I'd be okay with it. More than okay. You— I— yeah. You _get_ me, and I like that." He suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting. "Anyway, catch you later? Better go see the old man before he sends out the search team. I'll give you the info on that biker after, if you're still around."

He practically jogs to the door, clearly flustered, and Deckerd can't help but call out to him. "Gunmax." The mech's antenna perks up straight and he glances back, tilting his head. "Thank you," Deckerd says, smiling, "partner."

Gunmax flashes him a truly blinding grin. "**Love you, baby**!"

**Author's Note:**

> they got some shit to talk about  
will i write that too?
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> many thanks to my wonderful girlfriend for proofreading + giving me the confidence to post 💖💕  
find me on twitter @steelhearts_ if u like robots n stuff xx


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